Sunset
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
Tho' the biting north wind
Full across this drifted hold,
Let us stand with iced
Watching westward as of old;
Past the violet
To the farthest fringe of pine,
Where far off the
Narrows to a dusky line,
And the last pale splendours
Slowly from the olive sky;
Till the thin clouds wear
Into threads of purple-gray,
And the sudden stars
Brighten in the pallid green;
Till above the spacious east,
Slow returned one by one,
Like pale prisoners
From the dungeons of the sun,
Capella and her train
In the glittering Charioteer;
Till the rounded moon shall
Great above the eastern snow,
Shining into burnished gold;
And the silver earth outrolled,
In the misty yellow light,
Shall take on the width of night.
Archibald Lampman
Other author posts
Snow
White are the far-off plains, and The fading forests grow; The wind dies out along the height, And denser still the snow,
Midnight
From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars Is glimmering dim and hoar Without in many a peakèd mound The glinting snowdrifts lie; There is no voice or living sound; The embers slowly die...
Forest Moods
There is singing of birds in the deep wet woods, In the heart of the listening solitudes, Pewees, and thrushes, and sparrows, not few, And all the notes of their throats are true
June
Long, long ago, it seems, this summer That pale-browed April passed with pensive Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;
